by Jana Petken
Her wrists and ankles were raw and covered in dried blood in places because of her determined efforts to free herself from the ropes that had bound her. Her face was stinging, swollen, and bruised as though she’d been punched. Her mouth was still half open due to the painful hours she’d spent gagged, and her lips were swollen to twice their normal size with several doses of chloroform.
Horrific images floated through her mind, but she was not having a nightmare. She was not dreaming this. This was a conscious experience that she could neither comprehend nor associate anything with.
The chloroform was still lingering in her system, but she attempted to focus her thoughts on exactly what had happened to her. She had offered to help a man who was worried about his wife. The man in question was now standing alongside another man right here in this stable. She couldn’t believe stupidity and trust had led her to this. It was an unimaginable horror.
Getting tied up was not an experience she had any recollection of at all. She had woken up on the floor with back-breaking pain. Only then had she discovered her tethered body. She remembered sporadic drinks of water because of the painful procedure involved. The smelly rag that gagged her mouth had been pulled off her face and then replaced, stinging her skin. The drops of liquid poured on it had sent her into an abyss of darkness, without dreams each time.
Her tongue was numb. Her mouth was so dry that it was difficult to swallow her saliva. She had no clue as to her whereabouts. Was she far from home or was home close by? No, she determined, home was not nearby. London was not that big, and they had been on the road for a long time. She had to conclude, therefore, that they were nowhere near London or its suburbs.
Her hungry belly was rumbling, yet the thought of putting food into her mouth made her want to vomit again. Her new gown, drenched in pee and dried vomit, was a degrading and shameful sight. The dress was torn on the left side, from her underarm right down to her waist. She was desperate to take it off and wash.
Pride and vanity had been but a fleeting experience for her. That day in the dressmaker’s shop and her experience in a beautiful tea room in front of St Paul’s had been the first time she’d ever thought of herself as more than a girl from a poor London borough. Her own vanity had brought her to this!
This was the end of innocence and sweet dreams. How could she ever feel pure after what she’d seen and felt? She felt like an animal, no better than that. She felt like one of those black slaves she’d heard about. She was being treated like livestock at market.
What would her family be thinking right now? It was the first time the thought had occurred to her. Would they be out looking for her? She just knew they would be, but she also assumed they would look no farther than the dressmaker’s and Mrs McCallum’s house – certainly no farther than the confines of the borough of Southwark. It wouldn’t enter their minds to cross the river to look for her, for that had been forbidden to her, and she’d always been obedient.
Had they gotten the truth out of poor Doreen and Agnes, who had shown nothing but kindness and understanding? She was horrified at that possibility. They would be in big trouble right now with her family and especially with Big Joe. If she were able, she would take all the blame on her own shoulders. She had deliberately played on the women’s pity.
Girls were sobbing now. She looked to her left and then to her right. One girl was crying so loudly that Mercy thought she might get shot for it.
Just then, a girl keeled over and hit the ground with a thud. Mercy thought she might fall too – she wished she could hold on to something or someone. She would not cry again if she could help it. She thought about Grandpa Carver. He would belt her if he were here to see her crying like a sissy.
She continued to glance at the two men, who were talking in whispers and standing near the stable doors. She felt bile rise in her throat and realised that her body was beginning to sway backwards and forwards. She wasn’t sure how long she could stand on her feet like this. She was sure she was going to faint any minute now, and she hoped that if she did, she would never wake up again.
Chapter Eleven
A door opened. Mercy heard soft-footed steps coming closer from somewhere behind her. She didn’t turn to look.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw three women. They walked slowly, one behind the other, down the line, passing her and paying no heed to any of them. Mercy looked and presumed by their black-and-white uniform dresses and crisp white frilly caps that they were house servants. All three wore aprons that began at the neck like bibs, were tied at the waist with wide bows at the back, and fell right to the floor. They were well groomed, and the aprons and neat hair led Mercy to believe they had come from a grand house. She was confused more than ever. She got the impression that the three servants had seen captive girls many times before, given their total indifference and passive expressions. They approached the two men. Mercy tried to hear what they were saying, but all she saw were lips moving. A discussion was going on – about what, she didn’t know.
“Right, let’s get this done, Missus Parker,” Eddie said in a gruff voice. “Madame du Pont will want to inspect them, and we’re already late. You get the firepit going outside, Sam, and I’ll make a start on the girls.”
Sam cursed him and stood with his hands on his hips, ready for an altercation. “Who made you the boss? How come I always have to do the fire and you get all the fun? I did the fire the last time.”
“Aw, for God’s sake, shut your trap. Just do it or we’ll both be in the shit. You know she won’t come down here until we’ve got them disinfected, so stop whining like a woman and move your arse. I want a beer, and then I want my bloody bed.”
Mercy watched the man called Sam march out of a side door, banging it shut behind him. He had inflicted pain on her and the others inside that filthy, disgusting carriage. He’s a pig, just like the other man, the trickster, she was thinking. Mercy now studied the actions of the remaining man. He was the one who had lied to her at St Paul’s with false tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Mercy! her mind was screaming.
He spoke to the servant women, pointing to the far end of the line. The women nodded. All three walked past Mercy and those next to her, again ignoring their existence.
Eddie brought out a knife from a leather holster on his thigh and ran his fingers gently down the length of it, from the hilt to the point.
Mercy drew in her breath. Surely he wasn’t going to kill them? That wouldn’t make sense. He hadn’t brought them all this way just to end their lives. If she were the one holding the knife, she’d gut him. She wouldn’t hesitate.
Eddie went to the first girl in the line. The girl was crying. Mercy closed her eyes. She couldn’t block out the sound of moaning and tearful begging, but she didn’t have to watch. She heard ripping and tearing from both ends of the line now, left and right.
She finally opened her eyes. She had to see what was happening, for she would have to endure the same as the others when they got to her.
Eddie walked nonchalantly past the first girl and on to the girl right next to her. Mercy watched in horror as he took the knife to the girl’s gown and sliced the entire length of it, from neckline to thighs. Her hooped underskirt came off next, then bloomers, leaving the girl in a corset and unsuccessfully trying to cover her half-naked breasts and pubic region. Eddie walked outside with the first two lots of stinking garments and reappeared a moment later.
Mercy steeled herself. She was next in line.
Eddie ignored Mercy’s hatred, emanating like a blinding beacon from her eyes. She could smell his rancid breath now that he was but inches away from her face. He looked her in the eye and moved in closer. Mercy tried to take a step backwards but was stopped in her tracks. The knife blade was at her throat.
“I remember you the most,” Eddie told her. “You delayed our journey, but I’ve got a feeling you’ll be well worth it. Do you like me? Tell me you like me.”
Mercy swallowed the bile rising again in her thro
at and stared back at him with that same shining hatred. “I like you, sir,” she said.
She closed her eyes, only to open them wide a second later when she felt his wet tongue licking her face. She cringed. What was this revolting man doing? Her stomach turned over. He leaned in even closer. His tongue was in her ear, out and then in again. Afterwards, it slithered back to her face, following a path down her cheek and along her chin until it finally came to rest on her mouth. He parted her swollen lips. Then his tongue was inside, whipping her teeth and dancing with her own swollen tongue.
Mercy shuddered. The smell, taste, and feel of his wet tongue and saliva inside her mouth enraged her. She wanted to kick, punch, and stab him with his own knife, but instead she stood as still as a statue, her eyes staring defiantly into his. Her undeniably contemptuous glare seemed to unnerve him, and she wondered if he would punish her further.
Mercy continued to stare at him even when the knife cut into her dress and nicked her skin at the neckline. A dribble of blood ran down her cleavage and disappeared between her full breasts. She stood then like a soldier to attention, watching and hearing every rip and tear. The puff sleeves came apart. He then went back to her already torn and bloodied neckline. He pulled at the silk with one hand and sliced it down to her waist with his knifed hand. The gown parted like a pair of curtains.
Mercy felt him pull the material at the waist and cut until the entire dress fell off her in two halves. When she wore nothing more than her brand-new corset, he turned from her, picked up her beautiful gown and petticoats, and marched outside again.
At this point, Mercy dared to look up and down the entire line. The three women were finishing off the remaining girls, using dressmaking scissors. They did not look up from their work, nor did they utter a word. Girls were openly crying, some begging to go home. One girl fainted and was consequently slapped across the face and dragged once again to her feet.
Mercy found herself fighting tears now. This was not new to her, for she’d fought the pleasure of a good cry all her life. But she was almost naked, humiliated, and afraid of what was to come. She wanted her grandparents and her own bed. She wanted to go home, marry Big Joe, work in the grocer’s shop, and let him take her night after night. She would gladly have gone back to a life she’d dreaded rather than face a future which was, with every passing moment, becoming sickeningly clearer. She suspected that she and the other girls would never see home again.
After some minutes, Sam and Eddie walked back into the stable. Mercy wondered if Sam and Eddie were done with them. As she looked at the other girls sobbing, she deduced that out of all of them, she would be the strongest. These girls were real ladies. They weren’t common like her. Their garments, before being ripped off, had been made with quality materials and were probably very fashionable, just like hers had been. Their hair, hair adornments, bonnets, and jewellery also displayed classic signs of wealth and were what she expected well-bred ladies to wear.
She came from a dark place in London, a place she believed none of these well-bred girls had ever seen, heard of, or imagined existed. Her home was in an area where fights broke out in the streets on a daily basis, blood was shed, and people were killed for debts owed. She had gone to school with rough girls who could bloody a nose just as quickly as any boy could.
She was not a lady, not like these young women. She was more streetwise than these sheltered high-class girls were. She felt like laughing, but it would have been a scornful laugh, for she’d not been very streetwise at St Paul’s Cathedral!
Her thoughts were interrupted. Eddie was speaking to the servant women. “Right, they’re all yours,” he said with a measure of relief in his voice. “Tell Madame du Pont we’ll be here at eight tonight for her inspection and instructions. You’d better get a move on, Parker. You’ve got a full load to get through here, and we arrived late, thanks to bloody London and its modernisation. I wouldn’t dilly-dally if I were you.”
Chapter Twelve
Mercy staggered tiredly with the other girls through an open doorway, down some stairs, and into a large warm room. Once there, one of the servants spoke directly to them for the first time in a tone of voice absent of compassion. “Right, my name is Parker, Missus Parker to you lot. You do as I say, else I get it in the ear from my employer. And if I get it in the ear from her, you’ll get it from me, only twice as bad.”
Parker stopped talking and watched for a reaction. She seemed satisfied that they were clearly scared shitless.
“You’ll take your stockings off now, and then we’ll be coming to get rid of those corsets. This is no time to be shy, ladies. When me and my friends snip your corset lacings, you’ll fill the bathtubs and get in. Share the tubs and scrub the filth off you. Help each other; it’ll be quicker. I want to see hair washed. And I don’t want any moaning about the water not being warm enough. Soap and towels are over there.” She pointed. “Now, are any of you on your bleeding cycle?”
Two girls nodded their heads and then hung them in shame.
Parker nodded. “Right, then. Share a bath, you two. You’ll find vagina padding over by the towels, and there had best not be any seepage once you’re dressed again. That goes for all of you when it’s your turn to bleed. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” all the girls whispered.
“The owner of this house is called Madame du Pont, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting, so get to it. We’ll refill the buckets and heat them as best we can, but don’t take our kindness as weakness, do you hear me? And another thing: don’t even think about leaving this room till you’re told to. There are men guarding all the doors, and we don’t give second chances to runaways – we give them a nice warm grave in the garden.”
The woman called Parker nodded to the other two women present, and the scissors came out of their apron pockets again.
Mercy watched the humiliating proceedings but refused to blink an eye. When they came to her, she held her head up high, closed her eyes, and tried to retain some small measure of dignity. They stood behind her. She saw nothing but felt rough hands tug and cut her corset laces in a cruel, emotionless fashion. They pulled at her, grazing her back with the scissors, and she felt like an animal being skinned alive.
Unattached, the corset slid off her body and landed at her feet. The women then came to stand in front of her. One of them proceeded to stretch her legs apart whilst Parker got on her knees in front of her.
Mercy tried to cover her vagina with both hands, and they were slapped away. One servant held her arms behind her back whilst the other slapped her inner thighs. “Open wider – more,” she ordered.
Mercy’s body trembled with revulsion. Not since she was a baby, had hands touched her down there. “Please don’t do that,” she begged the women, still trying to close her legs.
“I’ll cut you if you don’t stand still,” Parker told her, “and I’ll not be taking the bloody blame if I break skin on the most useful part of your body!”
It took great effort on her part, but eventually Mercy did as she was told. She relaxed her shivering body by closing her eyes again and thinking about her family. She felt another slap on the thigh and spread her legs until she thought she might lose her balance or do the splits.
She opened her eyes and focused them on the other girls, who were crying even louder than before. This time she didn’t stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks and onto her chin. She felt the scissors cut her pubic hair from her outer pubic area right to the sides of her hole. She was nicked a couple of times but forced herself to be as still as a figurine. When they’d finished with her, she was told to share a bath with a girl who was already filling it with water buckets.
Both naked and sheared girls avoided looking at each other. Mercy poured one last bucket of cold water into the bath and got in it. The bath water was tepid at best. It contained one bucketful of hot water from the fire and three of cold water that had sat just inside the door. Mercy had never seen so many iron buckets in h
er life, not in the same room. It’s better than being freezing, she thought, well used to cold baths.
She drew in her breath and sat down with her knees at her chin. The other girl followed her, weeping like a baby.
Mercy held her hand. “My name is Mercy. What’s your name?”
There was no answer.
“Please don’t cry. Don’t let them see you like this,” Mercy said, handing the girl the bar of soap.
“Julia – my name is Julia,” the young girl whispered. “Why are they doing this? Do you know why? Do you know where we are?”
“No. I don’t know anything. But I think we’re very far away from London. I think they’re going to sell us or something like that. I just don’t know,” Mercy told her quite simply. “Here, let me wash your hair and then you can do mine.”
Julia stopped crying with a final throaty sob and nodded. She then pinched her nose, slid down the bath, and dipped her entire body and head under the water. When she came up for air, Mercy noticed a small cut at her scalp. The blood had dried, and the small slit was beginning to scab over. It looked to be days old.
“How did you bump your head?” Mercy asked her.
“One of those men did it when they took me. I don’t know how long ago that was. I feel I haven’t slept or eaten in days. They took me to a house. I was there with three other girls, and then more came the next day.
“My mama and papa will be beside themselves with worry. We went to London for the season. I was not going to be presented at court this year, but my older sister was. She met the queen four weeks ago. It’s her coming-out year, you see.” Julia looked at Mercy and asked, “Have you been presented this season?”